Edwin Potter and the Prophet of Doom
by Dr. Platypus
Summary: Edwin Potter is on the trail of the 18th century's most dangerous Dark wizard. Along with his former Hogwarts schoolmates, he must face a shadowy foe who can see the future—and who wields an unbeatable elder wand. Follow Edwin's adventures from the New World to Azkaban.
1. Some Sort of Trouble

_Thursday, December 15th, A. D. 1715_

The air was cold and damp, but Edwin was glad nevertheless that at least the snow had stopped falling. For two days, he and his party had tramped inland from the coast. His feet were cold and soggy, and his mood was dismal. He was ready to see something—anything—besides the trees, mud, clouds, and snow that had been their constant companions.

"Much farther, sir?" Basil Parkinson asked. The smallish, pug-faced young man frowned and removed his spectacles long enough to wipe his brow with his sleeve.

"Almost there," Julian Southill answered. Edwin judged the Commissioner-at-Large for Magical Territorial Relations and Statutory Secrecy had aged rather poorly in the two years since recruiting him as his Second Assistant. The older man puffed and wheezed as they trudged uphill. He studied his map, brow furrowed.

Commissioner Southill had insisted on donning a lavender periwig that morning in preparation for his meeting with the Indian wizards. Edwin thought the idea was ridiculous, an opinion confirmed hours later when the wind and snow had left it a tangled mess.

"At least we'll be able to Apparate back," Edwin said. "I reckon we know the layout of Annapolis Royal well enough by now. And we'll finally be rid of all this baggage." He patted the nose of the mule he was guiding, burdened under baskets and crates loaded with gifts for the wizards they were supposed to be meeting.

"This trip would have been easier in summer," Basil said, wrapping his cloak more tightly around him.

Commissioner Southill shook his head. "The Micmac live in large villages during the summer. But this time of year they split up into smaller hunting camps."

"Ah," Basil said. "And smaller camps means fewer Muggle eyes."

"Indeed, Mr. Parkinson," Southill said with approval. "Good to see you're on your toes."

"If only I could feel my toes!" he whispered so only Edwin could hear.

"Commissioner," the fourth wizard said apprehensively. Lucius Loughty was the Commissioner's First Assistant, an eager, bright-eyed wizard whose long, blond hair had prematurely retreated from his forehead. "Is it wise to trust these wizards? Their relations with the British Muggles have been…less than friendly, after all."

"All the more reason to make our case for wizarding secrecy," Southill said. "There'll be a cock-up for sure if the Indian wizards decide to take matters into their own hands." Southill suddenly raised a hand and came to a halt. "Look sharp, everyone," he called. A second later, Edwin caught the sound of footsteps in the distance. Only for a heartbeat did Edwin consider reaching for the sword strapped to his belt. "Mr. Loughty, how do I look?"

Loughty wordlessly flicked his wand toward his superior's periwig, which shed its thatch of dead leaves and twigs, dried itself out, and returned to something approaching its original state.

Just over the crest of the hill, the four English wizards saw their counterparts: three Red Indians in animal-skin robes reaching to their knees. Their leader, a white-haired wizard whose eyes could barely be discerned amid the wrinkles on his face, carried a wand over two feet long and decorated with ornate carvings and braided leather. Two younger wizards—though still older than Edwin's twenty years—stood behind him, one to the right and the other to the left.

"_Bonjour_," Southill said. He continued in flawless French. "Julian Southill at your service. As I explained to your countrymen in Annapolis Royal, we have come in peace to greet our wizarding brothers across the sea." The Indians said nothing. "We bring gifts as tokens of friendship from the wizards who are subjects of His Majesty King George to his new subjects in the lands of the Micmac. Permit me to introduce my staff: Mr. Loughty, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Parkinson. And you are…?"

"Tuma," the leader of the Indian wizards said without emotion. "Actaudin. Sak." The two wizards flanking him bowed at mention of their names. "_Après moi_."

Tuma turned and headed back the way he came. The two parties walked in silence for nearly half an hour before coming to a large conical structure covered with sheets of birch bark. At some distance beyond the hut was a clearing in which three similar structures stood.

"Inside the _wikuom_, _si'l vous plait_. Don't disturb the Muggles." He gestured with his head in the direction of the encampment.

"With pleasure," Southill said. "Mr. Potter, Mr. Parkison, please see to the gifts while Mr. Loughty and I converse with our friends."

The two English wizards entered the structure followed by the three natives.

Edwin glanced toward Basil. "He doesn't have much to say, does he?" he grinned.

"I reckon he'll share his opinion about the hostages soon enough," Basil said under his breath. "And I doubt he'll be any keener to uphold the secrecy statute than the Iroquois were."

Edwin and Basil began to unpack the baggage. They spread out two large woven mats on which to arrange their gifts. "Seems like a waste of time if you ask me," Edwin said. "The Iroquois, the Micmac, all these tribes seem to have worked out their own ways to preserve wizarding secrecy."

Basil shrugged. "From what I gather, it's not so much 'wizarding secrecy' as a gentlemen's agreement not to ask too many tricky questions. Don't ask me anything and I won't have to lie about it, know what I mean?"

"I'll bet half the camp knows what this Tuma bloke is," Edwin opined. "He probably advises the chief. Tips him off when the Mohawks are coming, brews him an occasional potion, performs a Healing Charm every now and then behind closed doors—or closed tent flaps, as the case may be. They reckon as long as the Muggles don't see anything _too_ outlandish, what's the harm?"

The two braced themselves against a sudden gust of icy wind. The sun hung low on the horizon.

"Southill says it's because they're superstitious savages," Basil said. "I say they only see and hear what they're prepared to accept. Everything else they filter out."

He hefted a large iron cauldron in his hand. "Do you really think the Micmac will be impressed by British cauldrons? I'll bet they've got a hundred French ones already."

"I suppose it's the thought that counts. We've got to prove we're on their side—that we'll be just as friendly as the French, now that this is English territory. Tuma is the 'paramount wizard': the closest thing these Micmac have to a Minister for Magic. If we can get him on our side…"

Edwin pulled a handful of wands from another basket. "Now, this might get their attention. Half a dozen Ollivander wands. I'd like to see the French match that!" He laid them on a blanket next to the other artifacts he had unpacked.

"Not ruddy likely," Basil agreed. "Ah, look at this: an Invisibility Cloak." He held up the artifact for Edwin to see.

"Demiguise hair?"

Basil ran the silky material between his fingers. "Disillusionment Charm, I expect. Nothing to compare to yours, of course."

Edwin glared at his friend. "I told you I'd prefer we not mention that gift from my grandfather."

"As you wish," Basil said. "Still, it was right generous of him to give it to you even when you left Hogwarts after your sixth year. He always rode you about your marks, didn't he?"

Edwin sighed. "We…came to an understanding. And he _was_ glad I took a position with the Ministry. To be honest, Thomas and Dilys gave us both a rougher time of it than Grandpa did me."

"Thomas Wildsmith would have stayed for an eighth year if they'd have let him. It wouldn't surprise me if he applies for every open position at Hogwarts for the next ten years."

"And Dilys Derwent thought it a scandal that we would break up our little foursome. Loyal to a fault, she is."

"A Ravenclaw and a Hufflepuff, each in their own element," Basil said. "But I'm glad we left. Another year at that place would've driven me mad."

"Right you are," Edwin said, untying the last of the packages. "And I'm especially glad to be half a world away from Rigel Black's ugly face!"

Basil nodded. "The oaf gives Slytherin House a bad name," he said. "That wizards would judge _me_ by the likes of _him_…." Basil sighed in disgust as snow once again began to fall.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Parkinson," Southill called from the flap of the wigwam. "It's time to share our gifts."

Basil and Edwin eyed Muggle women stoking a fire at the center of the distant camp and decided at once to forego magic. Instead, they each grabbed one end of the first mat and hauled it into the wigwam. They did the same with the second. With their prizes laid out before the wizard who called himself Tuma, they took their own seats the floor behind Southill and Loughty.

Despite the growing chill outside, the inside of the wigwam was pleasantly warm. Edwin suspected a Warming Charm of some sort was involved no less than the small fire burning in the center of the room.

"As proof of our good intentions, _Monsieur_ Tuma," the Commissioner said, "I present you these gifts from my people. British wands, for example, are the envy of all Europe."

Tuma selected a wand from the collection on the blanket and balanced it in his hand. He did not seem overly impressed.

"I…I know you'll find this interesting," Southill pressed on. He lifted the Invisibility Cloak, folded like a blanket, and presented it to the paramount wizard. "A Cloak of Invisibility," he declared. "Perfect for hunting…I expect…or for escaping one's enemies."

"Fleeing from a battle, you mean?"

Southill sighed, deflated.

"_Monsieur_ Tuma," Loughty spoke up, "this is but a sampling of the gifts we can bring. You'll find the Ministry is happy to reward its friends and allies—and very generously."

"_Monsieur_ Southill," Tuma said, ignoring Laughty's interruption. "Perhaps your Ministry for Magic would be willing to extend to my people the gift of _peace_."

Southill swallowed. Edwin gritted his teeth.

"You must understand, Monsieur, we are just as dismayed about Micmac hostages in British forts as you are…"

"The hostages are a disgrace, to be sure, but that is not what I mean. You do not speak for the Muggles of your kind, but you do claim authority over wizards, do you not?"

"Of course, but…"

"So, what do you intend to do about the wizards that have been killed these past three months?" Tuma continued. "Three Micmacs, half a dozen Maliseet, of the other tribes I have no sure knowledge, but I have heard of two—including the paramount wizard of the Passamaquoddy, a dear friend of mine. All fell to curses inflicted by _white_ wizards."

"_Monsieur_ Tuma, surely you don't think the Ministry was involved!"

The paramount wizard of the Micmac waved off the accusation.

"My second, Actaudin, watched two of his kinsmen slain. He saw their attackers. He saw their white skin and their stubby wands. He heard the language of their incantations. Were they sent from your Ministry?" Tuma scoffed. "I only say that they are your problem. Bring these men to justice. Then we will discuss your gifts."

The uncomfortable silence in the wigwam was only broken by the soft crackle of the fire and the rising howl of the wind outside.

"Mr. Loughty," Southill said at last, "do you have your writing tables? We'll need to record everything _Monsieur_ Actaudin can tell us about these white wizards."

"Of course, sir," Loughty said, reaching inside his cloak.

A young Indian at the door flap interrupted the conversation. Wide-eyed and trembling, he addressed Tuma in his native language. The three Micmac wizards traded apprehensive glances and sprang to their feet.

At the same time, the four British wizards shot nervous looks toward one another. Unsure what to do, Edwin stood up and reached for his wand. The others followed suit.

Tuma and his companions bolted toward the door with the British wizards close behind.

"_Monsieur_ Tuma," Southill called. "What's going on? Is there some sort of—?"

"Trouble," Tuma said.

* * *

• Annapolis Royal, formerly Port Royal, was the capital of Nova Scotia when the territory first came under British rule in 1710.

• King George I, the first king of the Hanoverian line of British monarchs, ruled 1714–1727.

• When the British assumed control of Nova Scotia from the French in 1713, they began the practice of holding Mi'kmaq hostages in their forts to force the rest into submission.


	2. The Gryffindor Way

The sun had barely set, and it took Edwin a second to get his bearings in the long shadows. Outside the wigwam were two other Indians, young men like the first. These had arrows nocked in their bows, aimed into the forest in two different directions. The Indian who had interrupted the wizards' meeting drew a long hunting knife from its sheath.

Edwin glanced toward the Muggle camp. The fire the women were tending had gone out. He peered in vain for any signs of life. All he could see was an eerie pink mist covering the ground like a blanket.

"Membertouji' says the camp has been bewitched," Tuma said. "They have all fallen asleep. He fears they are sick."

One of the archers said something in Micmac. His voice was frantic.

Tuma raised a hand for silence. Edwin heard it as soon as the paramount wizard spoke. "Onmejin says there is something in the forest. Footsteps."

All seven wizards now had wands drawn. Wizarding secrecy would have to wait. There was another flurry of footsteps crunching on the snowy ground.

Suddenly a jet of purple light flashed toward Tuma. Instinctively, Edwin cast a Shield Charm over himself and the paramount wizard.

"Fan out!" Southill called. Basil slid to the right, Loughty to the left. Edwin remained at Tuma's side. Gazing into the shadows, he saw nothing but snow-covered forest.

One of the Muggles gasped as if he were about to faint. Then Edwin saw it: a glimmer of silvery light amid the trees. Half a second later, a monstrous form emerged from the wood.

It must have been at least eight feet tall, man-shaped but with a brutish face. It was hairy, too—a bearded, fanged, misshapen abomination that looked anything but human. Despite its enormous size, it was thin to the point of being emaciated. Edwin was sure he could hear its distended belly rumble with hunger.

It took Edwin a second to realize the creature wasn't merely white; it was glowing. And furthermore, it was partially transparent—like a huge, misshapen ghost. _Can trolls become ghosts?_ Edwin wondered.

An arrow passed harmlessly through its chest. One of the Indians—Onmejin—had shot it to no effect. The other one, the one with the hunting knife, screamed in fright. The creature drew its mouth into a disturbing parody of a human's smile.

Only then did Edwin notice the humans following behind the ghostly creature. There were three cloaked men, each carrying a wand. One of them aimed another spell into their midst, but Loughty's Shield Charm deflected it.

Loughty aimed his own hex toward the nearest wizard, who ducked behind a tree. At the same time, another attacker blasted the First Assistant with a nasty curse that flung him ten feet in the air.

From that point, chaos reigned. Jets of lethal magic lit up the sky as both groups advanced against their opponents. The Muggles let fly their arrows, but one of the men fell almost immediately to a hex cast from the edge of the forest.

The fearsome spirit-creature advanced silently on Edwin, Tuma, and Actaudin as they clustered near the paramount wizard's wigwam. It let out a bone-chilling shriek like nothing Edwin had never conceived in his worst nightmares.

Tuma raised his wand, and with a commanding voice uttered an incantation in the Micmac language. A stream of blue light enveloped the thing. It seemed to hold it at bay—but only for a heartbeat. Then, it evaporated in a puff of silvery smoke.

Edwin was about to sprint off toward Basil, who seemed to be having a rough time with one of the attackers, when he realized the smoke that marked where the ghostly monster once stood had not dissipated. Rather, it streamed toward Actaudin like a funnel cloud turned on its side. It looked like it was being sucked into Actaudin's mouth as if by a straw. The next thing Edwin knew, Actaudin had his hands around Tuma's throat.

Edwin leaped on the younger wizard's back and tried to pull him off the elder. With great effort, he succeeded. He and the Actaudin wrestled on the ground while shouts of anger and confusion filled the air no less than the continuing volleys of spells.

Tuma's wigwam burst into flames from some attacker's Fire Charm. In the confusion, Edwin managed to kick Actaudin off of him and scramble to his feet. He had somehow manage to hold onto his wand.

Actaudin—or whatever that thing was that had entered him—turned toward one of the attackers, a tall, broad-shouldered wizard, perhaps in his fifties, in a thick gray traveling cloak. This wizard seemed not to be in any hurry. In fact, something about him suggested he was in perfect control of the situation. He gestured toward Tuma with his wand, a sliver of pale wood in the fire light.

"_Attaquez-le_!" he shouted. At once Actaudin was in midair, leaping upon the paramount wizard. His hands had somehow transformed into claws that dug into Tuma's chest.

"_Stupefy_!" Edwin called. His Stunner blasted Actaudin in the middle of his back. The Micmac wizard slumped to the ground. A fine silvery mist rose from his motionless body. It swirled around for a second and then made a beeline for one of the Muggle Indians. It was Omejin's friend with the bow. He jerked as the smoky funnel cloud entered his body, then he gazed up with a murderous gleam in his eye.

"Bloody hell," Edwin whispered.

Somewhere Basil shouted in agony. Julian Southill sped to the side of Sak, the other Indian wizard, to protect the remaining Muggles.

Just then a stream of purple flame blasted Edwin's arm, just above the wrist. His sleeve was suddenly ablaze. He dropped to the ground and jammed his arm into the snow to put the fire out. Just then his attacker landed another curse.

"_Crucio_!" he called. Edwin doubled over in agony. He rolled away, still patting snow against his blistering arm. He had gotten nearly to his feet when he realized he had lost his wand. He glanced across the battlefield. By the light of the still-burning wigwam he saw it twenty feet away, charred from the blast that had nearly incapacitated him. Southill and the gray-cloaked wizard's other companion were dueling nearby. In fact, Southill's opponent was practically on top of it.

His heart sank.

His own attacker advanced on his position—a gaunt wizard with a nasty scar across his left cheek. Apparently he didn't see where Edwin's wand had landed. He simply marched toward his victim with a twisted smile on his face. He inflicted a second Cruciatus Curse. Edwin cringed but willed himself not to cry out. He managed to open his eyes and look directly at his scarred face. He raised his wand again.

"_Galemorphus_!" Julian Southill's incantation rang in Edwin's ears. The attacker vanished in a flash of light, and in his place was a weasel, which quickly scurried away into the forest.

"Mr. Potter!" Southill called. "We need you over here!"

Edwin nodded. He had drifted some distance from the center of the fighting. His hand was black and blistered. His arm felt worse, but the Cruciatus Curse surpassed anything he had ever endured. He scanned the ground to re-locate his lost wand. _Where is it?_ he wondered.

The monster, still possessing the body of the Indian Muggle, roared and bounded toward Edwin. Its face was contorted, animalistic, with fangs and claws that mimicked those of the original ghostly form in which it had first appeared.

Edwin only had time to draw his sword and, hopefully, hold the creature at bay.

Then he spied his wand. It had been kicked up against a tree stump directly in the creature's path. If he had seen it sooner, he might have dived for it. But now...

_Whatever you do, don't_—but it was too late. The creature's foot landed squarely against the blackened wood. The cracking sound nearly stole Edwin's last remaining ounce of resolve.

"Alright," he sighed. "Let's try this the Gryffindor way." He slashed with his sword—and his injured arm strained at the exertion. His hand was so weak and tender he could barely lift his weapon. He sidestepped from the charging creature and hastily switched his sword to his other hand. He didn't want to harm the man the creature was possessing, but he didn't want to die, either. If someone with a wand didn't take care of matters soon, he would be forced to act.

Fortunately, the creature was wild, erratic. It made another pass, barely coming within reach of Edwin's steel. The sword felt clumsy in Edwin's left hand, like he was a first-year again in Professor Dimsdale's dueling classes back at Hogwarts.

The creature lunged again. Acting on pure instinct, Edwin set his blade, and the creature managed to run itself through. It howled a full-throated howl and tried to twist itself loose, blood splattering in every direction.

The Indian Muggle fell backward. Silvery smoke arose from his body, swirling and reforming into the massive, repulsive form it had taken at the start. It shrieked at Edwin, who could do nothing but futilely brandish his sword.

A blue light bathed the creature. Sak, the other Indian wizard, held it in his spell. This time, the binding magic seemed to work. The creature pressed in vain against the translucent shell of magic in which it was trapped. Finally, Sak uttered another incantation, and the creature disintegrated completely.

A second later, Sak fell to the ground, the victim of another hex thrown by the gray-cloaked wizard.

Edwin sighed with resignation and lifted his sword.

"_Mon Dieu_," the gray wizard gasped. Something in his eyes brightened, as if he had seen something startling. He glanced from Edwin to the spot near his feet where Edwin's wand now lay in two jagged pieces, then back to Edwin.

"_Retirez!_" he said. _Why does he want to retreat?_ Edwin thought.

"_Mais_…" he remaining henchman began to protest, but the gray wizard cut him off with a curt gesture. The two turned on the spot and vanished with a crack.

The smoke was beginning to clear. Edwin managed to revive Sak, and the two of them limped together toward the burned-out shell of Tuma's wigwam. The donkey was long gone. Where hours before Edwin and Basil had unloaded its burden, Southill stooped over Tuma and Basil, tending to their wounds. The two remaining Muggles were in a daze, paralyzed with what could only be abject terror.

Actaudin lay on the ground, eyes open, visibly shivering.

"The other Muggle's back there," Edwin said between labored breaths. "He needs help." Loughty nodded and limped off in the direction Edinw indicated.

Southill uttered a healing spell over Tuma's pale body. Basil groaned. Without a wand, Edwin felt worse than useless. Basil seemed to have lost his wand as well or he'd have borrowed it and began performing healing spells. He stepped gingerly into the ruined wigwam, searching for one of the Ollivander wands they had brought.

It was no use: Anything of value inside the paramount wizard's home had been reduced to ashes.

"Potions!" he blurted.

"Huh?" Sak grunted, still dazed.

Edwin stumbled over to Basil and threw open his friend's cloak. He always kept a small satchel under his cloak with a supply of basic potions. He fumbled left-handed through the satchel until he found the one he needed. He thought his right arm might fall off at any minute from the pain.

"Drink up, mate," he said, tipping the vial into Basil's mouth.

"I'll take a Healing Potion over here, Mr. Potter!" Southill called.

"Right away, sir!" Edwin called. He jammed a second vial into the Commissioner's hand.

"Wh-what…?" Basil mumbled.

"Rest," Edwin said.

Loughty returned, levitating the injured Muggle in front of him.

"How's Tuma?" he asked.

"Not good," Southill said. "He took some vicious curses—and a lot of them. Frankly, I'm surprised he's lasted th—"

Tuma let out a weak, gurgling breath before slumping lifeless to the ground.

"S-Sir?" Loughty said.

Southill shook his head.

"How the devil do three wizards fight seven to a standstill?" Loughty shouted. "Even with that—that _thing_…"

"The leader…" Basil said. "He was… I've never seen anything like it. He was holding off three of us at once for a while there."

"If he hadn't broken off the attack…" Edwin began.

"Yeah, what was that about?" Loughty said. "Another five minutes we'd all have been dead, then he takes one look at Potter and…I dunno; it's like he lost his nerve."

"Thank God for small miracles," Edwin sighed. Suddenly he remembered something. "The camp!" he cried. He took off toward the Muggle camp, stopping at the edge. The pink mist still lingered at knee height, and Edwin had no desire to test whether wizards were immune to its effects.

A minute later Sak arrived. He used his wand to blow away the mist and make himself a path into the heart of the encampment. Edwin waited, helpless, for the Indian wizard to return.

"They sleep, but they not die," he said in broken French.

"We'll tell Commissioner Southill," Edwin said. He turned to go, then gestured for Sak to take the lead. On the way back to Tuma's burned-out wigwam he found Basil's wand in the snow and picked it up.

Southill met them halfway back.

"_Monsieur_ Sak," he said, "I do not know how your people choose a new paramount wizard, but…" he bowed his head.

"For that, we wait," Sak said. "The camp needs help."

"Of course."

"I go, find help. I think you need help, too."

Southill surveyed his surroundings. Edwin stood before him, his sleeve charred black and the skin underneath severely burned. In the distance, Basil coughed and groaned under Loughty's continued ministrations. Edwin just then noticed the Commissioner's own swollen, purple face. His lavender periwig was nowhere to be seen, and an ugly gash creased the left side of his bald head.

"We are in your debt, _Monsieur_," Southill said. "If you could kindly help me see to my…." The Commissioner slumped forward. Edwin barely managed to catch him as he tumbled to the ground.

"Mr. Loughty!" he called. "Some assistance, please!"


	3. Refuge

The rest was a blur. Edwin helped Loughty carry Southill through the darkness back to where the other wounded lay. He scrambled to help as best he could, but Basil's hazel wand seemed hesitant to cooperate.

It wasn't long before three new wizards Apparated to the camp: Europeans Edwin didn't recognize. A young woman helped Loughty tend to the wounded while two men investigated the Muggle encampment.

Now that the danger was past, Edwin realized how bad his arm really was. The woman tore away what was left of his sleeve and smeared a salve from her bag on the wound. It stank worse than anything Madame Scevington, the Hogwarts matron, had ever applied to his wounds, but it also soothed his aching skin and muscles. The flesh began to re-grow with an itchy tingle.

The two men returned from the encampment and parlayed with Sak for some time. All the while, Edwin grew drowsier with every minute. He wasn't sure if it was an effect of the medicine or simply the stress of the past hour catching up with him. Either way, he didn't want to lose consciousness—not until he was sure everyone was going to be all right.

Before he realized it had happened, the new European wizards had gathered the four members of the British legation in a close huddle around an Indian drum.

"Grab hold," a wizard with bushy red eyebrows said in English. Edwin extended a hand.

"Is everyone ready?" said the other wizard, a bear of a man with an unkempt steel-gray beard. He also spoke English, but with a thick French accent.

Edwin nodded. Looking around, he realized he was probably in better shape than Basil or Southill, but he still felt like a dragon had been using him as a chew toy.

"Here we go," the witch said. Her French accent was less outrageous than that of the bearded man, but still noticeable. The seven of them touched the drum. Several seconds passed, then Edwin felt the unmistakable lurch of a Portkey. Before he could prepare for it, everything went black.

When they reappeared, Edwin couldn't tell he was anywhere different. He was still in a dark, snowy forest. Here, however, there were no smells of smoke, blood, or sweat.

He glanced at his companions, haggard and wounded, but safe at last. And then, exhausted, he swooned.

* * *

Edwin awoke in a small room furnished with little more than a cot, a simple writing desk and chair, and a rustic stone fireplace. He sat up on the cot, threw off his covers, and slid his bare feet onto the cold stone floor.

Someone had dressed him in a nightshirt. A fresh set of wizard's robes lay draped across the back of the chair. He scratched his head, then realized his right arm was wrapped in clean bandages from the elbow to the tips of his fingers. He still smelled the disgusting burn salve the French witch had first applied at Tuma's camp.

There was a knock at the door. Basil Parkinson ducked his head inside. "Edwin!" he cried. A wide grin spread across his face. "Awake at last, eh?"

"Yeah," Edwin answered. "How long…? Where…?"

"It's Saturday morning. You slept straight through Friday. As to where, they call the place Mènigou. Apparently it means 'Refuge.'"

"Refuge, eh?" Edwin reached for Basil's arm for support and eased himself onto his feet. "Sounds good to me." There was a water basin on the desk. Edwin ambled over and splashed some on his face. It was cold and refreshing.

"Some kind of wizard village?"

"A school."

"A school?"

"It's only been open a few years. The French set it up for their colonists."

"The French! Where are we?"

"Acadia. French territory. Settle down! I was uneasy about it, too, but now I'm sure we're safe here. Those three wizards who came to our rescue? They're the faculty. The Micmacs have only good to say about them—and they've taken great care of us the past two days. You missed breakfast, I'm afraid, but I'll bet we can kip something from the kitchen. Get dressed!"

Edwin's stomach rumbled at the mention of food. With a little assistance from Basil, he changed into the provided robes. They fit fairly well, although the doeskin boots at the foot of the bed were a bit too tight. He reached for his wand to see if he could adjust them.

Then he remembered.

"I don't have a wand," he said, crestfallen.

"I know. Sorry, mate, Loughty found the broken pieces before we left, but it was burned and broken past repairing. But they've got a wand-maker here at Mènigou. Professor Lescault says he's all right. Oh, he's no Ollivander, I'm sure, but given the circumstances…"

Edwin sighed and changed the subject. "Did you say something about a kitchen?"

Mènigou was no Hogwarts, but then again, Mènigou hadn't had seven hundred years to grow and develop. Everything about the enclosure spoke of rustic colonial charm. Edwin wondered if the place hadn't started its life as some sort of monastery. Now, however, its wide wings and myriad rooms had been converted to a different use. The walls were adorned with torches in iron brackets, Indian tapestries, and the occasional mounted hunting trophy. From time to time, a clutch of students—mainly French but also a few natives—zipped past on their way to or from their morning chores.

Basil helped Edwin find a sausage and a loaf of black bread in the kitchen pantry and a cup of cider to wash it down. He wolfed everything down in the small refectory.

"Not bad," Edwin judged. "You never told me where the others are."

"Southill and I were only cleared to move about yesterday afternoon. Southill's sent Loughty back to Annapolis Royal to fetch the rest of our gear. He's also sent an owl to London—well, actually I believe he said something about an albatross—but who knows how long it'll take to get there? Anyway, I was supposed to check on you and bring you to meet with Southill and the Mènigou professors as soon as you were awake. Well, I reckoned a side trip for breakfast would be in order."

"Thanks."

The conference room was bright with the lights of numerous candles as well as a roaring fire in the fireplace. Southill sat at a substantial oaken table with the three wizards from the other night. The young witch who had tended his wounds was dressed in a fine purple robe. She looked at Basil and Edwin with satisfaction when they entered the room.

Beside her sat the two wizards. The redhead with the bushy eyebrows grinned and jumped to his feet to escort the two to the table. The third wizard was the oldest of the three and also the largest. He looked like a small mountain, bearded, rugged, and vital, but also clearly pleased to see Edwin on his feet.

"_Bienvenu_!" the bearded wizard said, but then continued in his thickly accented English. "Welcome to Mènigou, _Monsieur_ Potter."

"Yes, welcome," the redhead added. "I'm Professor Ferdandy. Permit me to introduce Professor Lescault," the witch smiled and nodded, "and of course Professor Veillard." The bearded wizard stretched out his hand, then thought better of clasping Edwin's when he saw the bandages.

"Please have a seat, Mr. Potter, Mr. Parkinson," Southill said. "The professors have been educating me on the situation." He frowned. The Mènigou wizards returned to their seats. Edwin and Basil pulled up chairs on either side of Commissioner Southill.

"You've dealt with that lot before?" Edwin asked.

Professor Ferdandy nodded. Uncloaked, he reminded Edwin of some of the Scottish students at Hogwarts. "Aye, we have," he said. "They've killed at least a dozen of our kind. Most of them Indians, but some French and British as well. Nobody knows what they're up to."

"And that…creature that was with them?"

Professor shared a troubled glance with Professor Veillard. The older wizard leaned forward at the table and clasped his hands in front of his chin. "The creature Commissioner Southill has described to us is called by many names: _jenu_, _kewahqu_…the tribes to the west call it a _widjigo_. Whatever you call it, it's bad news."

"It's some sort of ghost or spirit, right?" Edwin offered.

"The ghost of a Dark wizard," Professor Lescault explained. "One of the worst, I'd wager."

Edwin drew in a breath. The misshapen thing that nearly killed him had once been human?

"Thirty years ago I had a run-in with a _widjigo_ north of Trois-Rivières," Professor Veillard continued. "Such a creature is a cannibal. Always hungry, never satisfied. It possesses the bodies of the living if it can, so it can prey on others. If Loxias has managed to bring a _widjigo_ under his control…"

"Loxias?" Basil asked.

"He goes by the name of Loxias," Professor Ferdandy said. "We don't know much about him. That might not even be his real name. He's French, apparently. And he's only been in Acadia for a short time, but you've seen for yourselves the sort of evil he's brought with him."

"He is by all accounts a very powerful wizard," Professor Lescault said. "As Jacques—Professor Veillard—has indicated, he seems to have an uncanny power over Dark spirits."

"And that's not all," Professor Ferdandy said. "What few witnesses such as yourselves have survived his attacks all say the same thing. The man is unstoppable in a duel."

"Nobody's unstoppable," Edwin said. He felt a wave of defiance rising within him.

"Then he's the closest thing to it," Ferdandy countered. "He's merciless. And he's fast—fast as lightning!"

"Indeed," Southill said. "I saw him face three wizards at once and barely break a sweat. It was like…like…"

"Like he knew what you were about to do before you knew it yourselves?" Professor Lescault asked. Southill nodded.

"They say he is gifted with Sight," she continued. "Although I have never known of any wizard who could predict his enemy's tactics in a duel, from what I have heard of this Loxias, I would not put it past him."

"He recognized me," Edwin interrupted. His throat was suddenly dry. There was an uneasy silence. "D'you suppose…?"

"He may have had some sort of premonition with respect to you," Professor Lescault said. "Without more information, I'm afraid there is little we can do about that."

"Right. No worries, then."

"But," Basil said, "if he can predict his opponent's attacks…"

"Sybelline and I disagree on this matter, _Monsieur_ Parkinson" Ferdandy said. "Of course, she is much more adept at the art of Divination than I." He nodded courteously toward his colleague.

"Then what do you think his secret is, sir?" Edwin asked.

"Fergus says it has to do with his wand," Professor Lescault said.

"His wand?" Basil said. "I know some wands are better than others, but surely no wand could be that good?"

"This is no ordinary wand, to hear the Indians tell it."

"They've even given it a name," Professor Veillard said. "They call it 'the Deathstick.'"

Edwin shook his head. "Basil's right," he said. "It can't be his wand. He's good, that's all. And maybe a bit lucky."

"We wizards make our own luck," Professor Ferdandy said. "Believe what you will, Mr. Potter. This Loxias chap is trouble." To Commissioner Southill he said, "We could use some help from you English."

"You shall have it," Southill said firmly. "If we might indulge your hospitality, Professor, we can work from your campus—at least until the spring thaw. Surely by then we'll have heard back from London."

"We are in your debt," Professor Lescault said.

"Then I would be obliged if you could help my Second Assistant, Mr. Potter. His wand was destroyed in the fight. He's no use to us without one."

"Of course," Professor Lescault said. "_Monsieur_ Potter, if you'll follow me?"

* * *

Professor Lescault stood at the door and addressed the wizened Indian wizard in French. "Tesswehas, this is _Monsieur_ Potter." To Edwin she said, "Tesswehas is in charge of our library, but he is also an accomplished wand-maker."

Tesswehas sat motionless, cross-legged on the woven mat in the center of a sparsely furnished room. The pungent smell of tobacco filled the air. He took a draw on his pipe and lifted his eyes to regard the newcomer to his chamber.

"I appreciate your time, sir," Edwin said.

Tesswehas grunted. He unfolded his legs and rose to his feet more spryly than Edwin would have thought possible.

Tesswehas slowly expelled a stream of smoke from his nose and mouth. Edwin was unaccustomed to the odor of tobacco, but managed not to cough. The Indian wizard offered his pipe to Edwin. "Now you," he said.

Edwin's eyes widened but he knew better than to refuse. He warily took the pipe and inhaled the smallest amount of smoke possible. Even so, he nearly choked. He hacked and coughed for several long seconds while Tesswehas merely chuckled. Red-faced, Edwin finally handed the pipe back to its owner.

"Good," he said. He sized up Edwin from head to foot. He reached out a bony hand to examine Edwin's now surely bloodshot eyes. After several moments of silent staring, he took another draw on his pipe and slowly expelled the smoke. Tesswehas gazed into it as if he were reading a map. He muttered to himself in his native tongue.

"I...erm…prefer a dragon heartstring core, uh, if it's not too much trouble."

"There are no dragons in Acadia," Tesswehas said matter-of-factly. He shuffled over to his workbench and pulled a bundle from a wicker basket underneath it.

"Well, then…perhaps—"

"And before you ask, there aren't any unicorns, phoenixes, amphisbaenas, manticores, or winged horses, either." He unrolled the bundle on the workbench—a beautiful blanket woven with intricate geometric patterns. Wrapped inside it was a small collection of wands, all carved in native style.

"I see."

Tesswehas selected one of the wands, weighed it in his hand, then put it back, shaking his head. He found another one and presented it to Edwin. It was longer than his old wand, but nicely balanced. A natural bend in the wood made it curve downward in a subtle arc. Even through his bandages, he could feel the pulse of magical energy as he gave it a swish. He regarded the pale, fine-textured wood.

"Not bad. What sort of wood is this?"

"_Érable_."

Edwin gave him a quizzical look. His French had improved tremendously over the past two years, but was still far from perfect.

"Maple," Professor Lescault said in English.

Edwin examined the carvings on the grip: some sort of catlike creature—a lynx or a panther, but with horns on its head and a ridge of spines down its back. The background was a finely carved fish scale pattern.

"What do you think, _Monsieur_ Potter?" Professor Lescault said.

Edwin looked nervously between Tesswehas and Professor Lescault. If this was going to be his wand, he needed to know he could count on it.

"_Expecto Patronum_!" he shouted. A silver hare immediately leaped from the tip and darted around the room. Edwin expelled a sigh of relief.

"And the core?"

"_Mishibijiw_," Tesswehas said. "_Panthère subaquatique_."

"Water panther," Professor Lescault explained. "A very fierce creature indeed. Tesswehas says a tuft of hair from behind the neck makes an excellent wand core."

"I've never heard of it," Edwin shrugged. "But I'm sure it's a fine wand," he hastily added.

"Are _you_ satisfied, Tesswehas? _Monsieur_ Potter is going to need the finest wand possible."

"Of course, Sybelline. You need not worry."

"I never worry," Professor Lescault protested. "I merely consider possibilities and seek to be prepared."

Edwin considered the brooding face of the French witch, at so young and vital yet somehow burdened with unspoken tragedy. Unbidden, he found himself thinking of his friend Thomas Wildsmith saying similar things while he was studying Divination.

"Professor," he said. "Do you…Do you know something about the future?"

"I'm no Seer, if that's what you mean," she said. "But I do pay attention to omens: the flights of birds, the shapes of clouds, various astronomical phenomena."

"And these things tell you something?"

"Divination is not an precise magical discipline, _Monsieur_ Potter," she said. "There are always a thousand variables."

Something about the silence that followed made Edwin nervous.

"But…?"

She sighed. "Difficult days lie ahead for all wizardkind, _Monsieur_ Potter. I fear that somehow you and your legation will be at the center of the storm."

* * *

• The United Kingdom was at war with both France and Spain during the War of Spanish Succession. The Treaty of Utrecht (1713) registered the defeat of French ambitions and granted Britain control over many former French colonies.

• King James VI of Scotland authorized the first Scottish overseas colony on the western shore of Nova Scotia in 1621. Although that colony failed, in 1670 many Scottish Highlanders went as traders in the Canadian interior with the Hudson's Bay Company. By the mid-eighteenth century, there was a significant population of Gaelic-speaking traders with mixed Scottish and aboriginal ancestry.


	4. You'll Have to Catch Me First

_Monday, July 30th, A.D. 1716_

The winter passed without further incident. At Commissioner Southill's direction, Edwin and Basel had made contact with representatives of the Micmac and Passamaquoddy wizards before the heavy snows set in and kept everyone imprisoned within the Mènigou compound. Edwin was relieved there was no further violence, but wary of what the mysterious Loxias might be up to.

With the spring came word from London: the legation was ordered back to Annapolis Royal. Odd things were happening in Muggle politics. For the first time anyone could remember, French and British interests seemed to be converging: both nations saw the need to contain Spanish expansionism. The British and French Ministries of Magic saw it as an opportunity to foster a more cooperative stance toward each other, and thus the Ministry in London insisted Southill's legation represent them at a hastily-called summit in Nova Scotia.

A French legation arrived from Montréal in late June. It was led by Yvette Simon, a steely, thin-lipped witch with an aristocratic demeanor that rubbed Edwin entirely the wrong way. Her two assistants were a young woman named Bernadette de Choisy and a man in his thirties, Clément Sauvaige. They both attended Madame Simon like members of a royal court and rarely spoke without the encouragement of their superior.

For a month, Southill and Simon conversed and debated in the British wizards' rented house and drew up a memorandum of agreement between the wizards of the two European nations. It was the longest and most boring four weeks of Edwin's life.

"We should be hunting Loxias," Edwin bristled one day as he and Basil made their way through the narrow streets of Annapolis Royal.

"They didn't give us much choice, mate," Basil said. "You made your case. Quite convincingly, I must say. Southill agreed with you about the urgency of finding Loxias."

"Yeah," Edwin spat. "So he sent Loughty back to England to deliver a full report—about nothing! Now I'm the one stuck taking notes at this bloody summit meeting."

"It's not all bad. That Bernadette is rather pretty."

"You're welcome to her. D'you notice how she just fawns over Madame Simon like she was the ruddy Queen of France?" Edwin was growing more frustrated by the minute. "And on top of that, she barely speaks English!"

"I'll bet she speaks it just fine—if Madame Simon would ever let her get a word in edgewise," Basil grinned. "But speaking of fawning sycophants, has there been any further word from Lucius?"

"Not for a month. And there are still no leads from Mènigou. But at least there haven't been any more attacks. The Ménigou wizards reckon they put those Indian Muggles to sleep so there wouldn't be any witnesses."

"Right considerate, that. Makes it easier to keep up wizarding secrecy."

"Yeah," Edwin said. "I wish somebody would make it easier to find a decent potions shop around here."

"Annapolis Royal isn't London, Edwin. They don't have anything like Diagon Alley. But the local wizards say this place is all right. Now, let me see…" Basil peered at the written directions he had been given. "That should be the place—looks like a Muggle apothecary, just like they said it would. We're supposed to ask for Merlin."

"That's subtle," Edwin scoffed.

Sure enough, the witch at the apothecary led the two into a back room at the mention of Merlin's name. While Basil restocked his supplies of aqua fortis, fairy wings, and pickled slugs, Edwin browsed the shop's collection of wand-care products.

With their supplies wrapped up, the two departed. But they had barely gone ten feet when Edwin stopped, wide-eyed.

"Edwin, what's—?"

"That man over there," he whispered, gesturing toward a tall, thin man approaching them from the direction they were headed. All of a sudden, he pushed Basil into the nearest alley.

"What's going on?" Basil demanded.

"That was one of Loxias's men," he whispered. "I'm sure of it. See the scar on his cheek?"

"You're imagining things," Basil said.

But Edwin had already begun to reach into his shoulder bag for his Invisibility Cloak. "No," he said. "You didn't have to face him down without a wand. I'd know that face anywhere."

"Edwin, what do you think you're doing?"

"Loxias must have found him, un-transfigured him back into human form," Edwin said, pulling the cloak over his shoulders."

"And so, what? You're just going to follow him? Edwin, the summit is due to re-convene in half an hour. That only gives us enough time to get back."

"You go back. Tell Southill. I'll send word if I discover anything."

"And how do you plan to do that? What're you going to do, teach your Patronus sign language?"

"I'll think of something. I've got to go!" Edwin pulled his Invisibility Cloak over his head and vanished from Basil's sight.

* * *

Edwin was careful to stay close to the sides of buildings so as not to crash into other pedestrians. Thankfully, the scar-faced man followed the main road eastward out of town toward Grand Pré. There was no doubt he was one of the wizards who had attacked Edwin last winter.

Before long, the wizard had left the narrow streets behind and was marching into the countryside. Edwin was sure he would Apparate as soon as he was well past the city's limits, but instead he seemed intent on walking the whole way to wherever it was he was going. Edwin strove to keep up with the man's long strides without making too much noise. Fortunately, the summer heat seemed to be as much a problem for the scarred wizard as it was for Edwin.

The two passed along footpaths between fields of ripening grain. The scarred wizard continued his march. Before long, the fields were behind them and the rugged hilly terrain enveloped them. At last he reached his destination, a wooded patch far beyond the cultivated land. The sun was still high in the summer sky. Beneath his Cloak, Edwin could barely feel the summer breeze. His wand arm itched. He still bore a scar from his wrist halfway up his forearm from the cursed fire that wounded him. It hadn't bothered him for months, but the stuffiness under his Cloak was getting to him. At least, he hoped it was only his Cloak.

The strange wizard veered south, diverging from the footpath to press even deeper into the wood. Edwin followed, still keeping his distance. At last he entered a clearing. A number of wigwams were clustered near the center, but most of the clearing was given over to a patchwork of animal pens and vegetable gardens. The only other people about were two lean Indians in a mishmash of European clothing. They scrambled to approach the scarred wizard on his arrival. The stranger raised his hand, and the two men allowed him to pass without incident. It was then that Edwin glanced the wands tucked into their belts.

_Wizards!_ he thought. He glanced around, wondering if he had passed some sort of anti-Muggle boundary that would have hidden the camp from any non-magical intruders.

The scarred wizard entered the nearest hut. Edwin slid around the edge of the clearing to get as close to it as he could. He already had a strong hunch about what—or at least _who_—would be inside.

"Come in, Mr. Levesque," a silky accented voice said. The scarred wizard did as he was bidden. Edwin approached the hut's open door as silently as he could.

"I did as you said, sir," the wizard said in French, "though I still don't understand it."

"I count on your loyalty, Mr. Levesque. You did well. But please speak English as long as we are in British territory."

"As you say, sir."

Edwin peered into the hut. As he suspected, the voice inside belonged to the gray-cloaked wizard from the Micmac camp. He was seated cross-legged in front of the smoldering fire pit, tossing bits of root into the fire and examining the swirls of smoke that arose. A second wizard was hunched over an open trunk at the back of the hut. Edwin calculated in his head. Two Indian wizards outside, Loxias, Levesque, and the other wizard inside. Five opponents total. He began to consider how he might send Basil or Southill a message, let them know where he was. Nothing sprang readily to mind.

"The veil will fall soon," Loxias said. Edwin couldn't gauge his expression. It might have as easily been stoic acceptance as anticipation. Just as he did in December, he exuded a sense of confidence, as if nothing could surprise him.

"I don't believe we'll be staying here much longer. There are certain techniques practiced in Saint-Domingue that I would like to learn." He tossed another handful of roots on the fire. "_Monsieur_ Deverill's…ah…gift will only get me so far, I'm afraid."

"I've heard the Africans have plenty of tricks," the wizard at the trunk commented. Edwin's blood ran cold. He recognized that voice.

"Bring me the book. Perhaps it will tell us if we have time for a trip to the Caribbean."

The wizard at the back of the hut turned around, and it was all Edwin could do to keep from shouting. The tall, dark-haired wizard was the last person Edwin expected to see.

It was his old nemesis from Hogwarts, Rigel Black.

Edwin kept his cool as Black presented a book to Loxias, who received it with a subtle bow. It was a small volume, like a diary or ship's logbook. He opened it to the first page.

"But first, we really should take care of more pressing matters," Loxias said. He drew his own long, pale wand. With a swish, the door of the hut slammed shut. Edwin's wand was in his hand before he knew it, but he kept as still and quiet as he could underneath his Invisibility Cloak.

"You may show yourself, my friend," Loxias said. "It will be better for you if you don't put up a fight."

Edwin froze. Loxias knew he was inside the hut! He weighed his options—keep still under his Cloak? Blast a hole in the wall and try to escape? Fire the first hex while he could? None of them sounded like especially wise choices.

_Bollocks!_ he thought. He readied his wand. He pulled off his cloak and cast a Stunning Spell at the same time, hoping to incapacitate at least some of his foes. Without waiting to assess the effects, he fired a Reductor Curse at the wall of the hut. It blasted apart in a rain of splinters, and Edwin darted outside just as Rigel Black yelled, "Potter? Here?"

He didn't have much time. The Indian wizards were already advancing on him. Two more Stunners put them out of commission, but the most important thing was to get a message back to Basil and Southill. He jabbed his wand toward the sky and set off a flurry of red sparks. He only stopped when Black and Loxias emerged from the hole in the wigwam.

Black's hex glanced off Edwin's Shield Charm. Edwin calculated how far it was to the edge of the clearing. Too far to run with two wizards firing hexes at him. His Cloak was now wrapped around his left arm. There was no point trying to put it back on.

"I'll kill you!" Black thundered.

But Edwin had already turned on the spot and vanished to the other side of the clearing with a crack. _You'll have to catch me first!_ he thought.

He didn't dare leave the wizards' camp. This was as close as they had come to Loxias in seven months. And there was something else: even if Loxias and his men managed to get away, Edwin wanted to know what was in that book Rigel kept.

He blasted the nearest wigwam with a Fire Charm and watched it go up in smoke. _That's a signal anybody could see_, Edwin thought.

He dove to the ground, just avoiding a jet of blue fire, then rolled and sprang back to his feet, firing hexes at the swarm of angry wizards now approaching him at a run. One of the Indians lurched forward, vomiting slugs. Edwin grinned and turned his sights on Black. His nemesis easily deflected his Body-Bind Curse and returned something far more sinister: a bolt of black fire that surged into Edwin's Shield so powerfully it nearly bowled him over.

In the half-second it took to regain his footing, Loxias and his cronies had formed a semicircle around him.

There was nothing to do but Apparate, but before he could fix a destination in mind Levesque pulled his feet out from under him with magical ropes from his wand. The next thing he knew, he was bound head to foot and floating helplessly in midair. Loxias's serene expression was unchanged.

"You know our guest, Mr. Black?"

"Edwin Potter, sir. A pest I had the misfortune to meet at school. Would you like me to kill him?"

"Of course not, Mr. Black! Why would I have gone to all the trouble to lure him here if I only wanted him dead. He is worth far more to us as a research subject."

Edwin didn't like the sound of that one bit.

"First, of course, we'll need to interrogate him. He may have valuable information for us…" Loxias's voice trailed off. The color seemed to drain from his face. Levesque and Black both looked apprehensive, as if they knew what might be coming. Black pulled a stylus and writing tablet from his coat pocket.

Loxias spoke, but the voice didn't sound right. It was as if another voice was superimposed over his own. This voice was agitated, almost manic:

"_Tristesse s'étend sur l'île du Nord  
Un monstre menace le griffon d'or  
Avec raison tous le monde s'inquiète  
De l'ombre de la chambre secrète._"

Black scribbled frantically. Loxias's head lolled on his shoulders, as if he were waking from a nap. It dawned on Edwin that he had witnessed a Prophecy. He recited the words over and over in his head; it was vital he remember as much of it as he could.

"Ah, yes," Loxias said in a drowsy voice. "Where were we?"

"We were going to interrogate him, sir," Black suggested.

"Ah, yes. Mr. Black, if you would kindly—"

In the distance a series of cracks grabbed the attention of Edwin's captors. The Indian wizards gazed warily into the woods in different directions.

"Apparating wizards," Levesque said.

"Indeed," Loxias said. Once again, his demeanor was calm, absolutely unflustered. "I wondered how long it might take for them to arrive. Mr. Levesque, may I suggest you station yourself inside the hut with my instructor. Mr. Black, take the path. You two," he indicated the two black wizards, "flank Mr. Black right and left, if you please." Loxias drew his wand.

Edwin fell to the ground, still wrapped in Levesque's magical ropes. He struggled even harder, but nothing he could do bought him even an inch of freedom.

A jet of crimson light flashed across the clearing. Levesque crumpled to the ground. Southill and Basil entered the clearing from the east and the west. Quick as a flash, Southill fired a hex toward Loxias, but the French wizard easily deflected it. At the same time, Black took down Basil with a Cruciatus Curse. Edwin strained against his bonds to no avail.

Suddenly three more wizards appeared at the edge of the clearing: the French legation had come, too! Madame Simon entered the clearing via the footpath to the north, firing hexes left and right. At the same time her assistants, Bernadette and Clément, emerged from the woods to the south.

Bernadette trained her wand on Edwin and shouted "_Désamarrez_!" The magical ropes evaporated at once. Edwin sprung to his feet, firing hexes in every direction.

Loxias was dueling Southill, Clément, and Madame Simon all at once while the two Indians had cornered Basil. Levesque rounded on Bernadette as Black shot purple fire toward Edwin.

Edwin conjured a Shield Charm just in time to deflect the attack. He let loose his own Conjunctivitis Curse. Black fell backward, clutching at his face. His tablet and his logbook fell out of his pocket onto the ground. Edwin delivered a Stunning Spell, then shouted "_Accio_!" The logbook flew into his hands. Before he could Summon the tablet, an errant hex flashed above his head. He ducked and spun around to take stock of the situation.

Basil had managed to bind one of the Indian wizards with a Binding Charm. The other seemed to be wilting under the Slytherin's attacks. Bernadette had bested Levesque; the scarred wizard was buried up to his shoulders in the earth. An ember from the burning wigwam landed on the roof of a second structure and began to smolder.

Loxias, however, was more than holding his own against the three wizards who had faced him. Clément fired hex after hex despite several bloody gashes across his face and torso. Madame Simon and Commissioner Southill were clearly exhausted. With a swish of his wand, Loxias threw Madame Simon into the wall of the nearest wigwam.

Edwin, Bernadette, and Basil rushed to join the fray. Loxias might be able to best three wizards, but there was no way he could stand against six.

"It's over," Southill said. "Give yourself up!"

"I think not," Loxias said, deflecting hexes from both Edwin and Bernadette. For the first time, Edwin noticed a change in the gray-cloaked wizard's expression. A sly grin spread across his face.

"_Avada Kedavra_!" he shouted. There was a flash of green light.

* * *

• The Anglo-French Alliance lasted 1716–1731.

• Saint-Domingue was the name France's colony on the island of Hispaniola, now known as Haiti.

• Merchants, poets, and aristocrats used writing tablets made of erasable sheets of paper or parchment coated with gesso (a white paint mixture made with chalk dust) and glue—a kind of portable wipe board. When desired, these records could be copied later onto more permanent media.


	5. The Spoiler Appears

Three things happened almost simultaneously. Edwin cast a Disarming Charm. The second wigwam burst into flames. And Julian Southill crumpled to the ground, motionless and pale.

Loxias maintained his grasp on his wand, but the combination of Edwin's charm and the wigwam's conflagration seemed to disorient him—if only for a heartbeat.

Bernadette attempted to hex Loxias, but once again he managed to deflect nearly attack. Madame Simon seized the moment to shout, "Retreat! Annapolis Royal!"

"No!" Basil shouted, "Ménigou!" At the same time, he threw himself on Southill. The next instant, he was gone.

Edwin grimaced. He had no intention of retreating, but as his comrades vanished one by one, he had no other option. He dodged one last hex from Loxias before Disapparating.

He reappeared in the same forest clearing the Ménigou wizards had taken them to last winter. The others were already there.

"Why'd you give up?" Edwin demanded of no one in particular. "We were wearing him down!"

"Edwin," Basil said, slowly and calmly.

"I almost disarmed him when he got distracted! All we had to do was—"

"Mr. Potter!" Madame Simon interjected. "Please!"

Edwin stopped. For the first time, he noticed that Basil was levitating the body of Julian Southill on a conjured stretcher.

"Southill!" Edwin cried. "Is he—?"

"Dead," Basil said. "It was the Assyrian Curse. There's nothing we could have done."

"And now Loxias is going to get away," Edwin said. He was no longer shouting, but he was just as angry. "We've got to go back. Bring the Mènigou wizards to help."

"Mr. Potter, I admire your determination," Madame Simon said, "but we are in no shape to go back."

"We can't let them get away," he said. "We just can't."

"I don't see as we have a choice," Basil said. "Madame Simon's right. We were just outmatched. We'll find 'em."

"He's leaving Nova Scotia," Edwin insisted. "I heard him. He's going to Saint-Domingue. We need to catch him now—he won't be around much longer. Probably already breaking camp. If we just…" He fell silent. The expressions on everyone's faces told him he wasn't going to convince them. Commissioner Southill was dead. The rest of them were lucky to be alive.

All because he had the brilliant idea to trail that wizard back to their lair.

He unwrapped the Invisibility Cloak tangled around his arm. He realized he was still clutching the book he had swiped from Rigel Black.

"Fine," he said flatly. He allowed the book to drop to the ground and stormed away.

As Edwin learned last December, the Mènigou campus was near the coast. He followed the sound of the waves and the smell of sea salt until he arrived at a rocky shoreline. He sat on a rock twenty feet above the crashing waves, glaring out over the Atlantic as if it would bring him any sort of consolation.

The sun fell below the trees. He shivered in the crisp evening air.

This was all his fault, and he knew it. His friends warned him about his impulsive nature, but he never learned. And now, the blood of Julian Southill, Commissioner-at-Large for Magical Territorial Relations and Statutory Secrecy, was on his hands.

Not for the first time, he envied his friend Basil's ability to think before acting.

"You Griffindors never learn," he said, imitating the Slytherin's jocular taunt.

"Aw, c'mon, mate. It's part of your charm!" Basil said behind him. Edwin spun around. Basil approached him, a half-hearted smile on his face.

"I don't mean to interrupt. I'm sure you've got a lot of important moping and self-pitying to do, but I found something." He lifted the book Edwin had dropped on the ground. "It's pretty important."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. C'mon. It's getting cold out here."

As the two hiked up the hillside to the Mènigou campus, Basil explained what he discovered.

"It's a record of all Loxias's prophecies."

"What?"

"That's right. Most of it's pretty dense. Apparently he likes to prophesy in quatrains, as if that hasn't been done to death!"

"So, what did you find?" The two passed the rough stone wall that marked the boundary of the school's anti-Muggle charms.

"I think I found _you_," Basil said.

Edwin stopped on the spot. "I'm sorry?"

"Look here," Basil said, leafing through the pages. "December 8, 1715. Read it for yourself." He handed the book to Edwin, who gazed at the page in the light from his wand:

_Voilà, le spoliateur apparaît_

_L'épée sanglante, la baguette cassée_

_Dedans du cloître il marche invisible_

_En direction de la fin terrible_

"Hmm," Edwin mused. "I know my French isn't the greatest, but…"

"He's no La Fontaine, that's for sure" Basil said. "But this one is pretty clear:

'Behold, the spoiler appears

The bloody sword, the broken wand…'"

"Wait a minute!" Edwin cried. "When Loxias first saw me at the Micmac camp, he looked like he'd seen a ghost. I had just lost my wand…I was fighting with a sword…"

"A bloody sword, right?" Basil said. "And your wand got broken in the fight. Was that before or after Loxias saw you?"

"Before," Edwin whispered. "He saw the wand, too."

"That's what I thought," Basil said.

"So…You think Loxias took that as a sign? That I had a bloody sword and a broken wand?"

"Just like his prophecy said a week before. This 'spoiler' in the prophecy…I bet Loxias reckons it's you, Edwin."

Edwin's mind was racing faster than any broom could fly. He headed toward the main house nearly at a run.

"And he knew I'd be coming…and that I could be invisible!"

"That's what the next bit says,

'Within the enclosure he walks unseen—or invisible if you prefer—

Towards the terrible end'"

"I really don't like the sound of that," Edwin said.

"I know, but don't you see? He was ready for you."

"He sent Levesque, that French wizard, to smoke me out in Annapolis Royal. All he had to do was let himself be seen…let me follow him…"

"…And _voilà_, no more 'spoiler.'"

They reached the door and passed through.

"Wait a minute!"Edwin said. "That prophecy said the spoiler was supposed to meet a terrible end, right? But I'm still here."

Basil frowned as he guided Edwin toward the conference room. "It's like Professor Lescault said last winter. Prophecies aren't always exact, and free will can mess them up at any rate. But think of this: the bit about walking unseen was fulfilled over half a year after the bit about your bloody sword." Basil stopped outside the conference room door. "Edwin…I don't know if you're off the hook just yet. Not until we figure out what some of the other prophecies mean."

Basil entered the room, leaving Edwin outside.

"But…that's mad! Loxias thinks—what? That somehow I'm the one who's going to spoil his plan? I don't even know his plan!"

"Unfortunately, _Monsieur_ Potter, such things have happened before." Professor Lescault addressed him from the conference table and bid him come in. The other professors had gathered there along with the members of the French legation. She motioned for Edwin to take his seat beside Basil.

"Precisely how a prophecy plays out involves the free choices of _all_ the parties involved. As far as Loxias is concerned, I'm afraid you _are_ the spoiler he has been expecting."

"But…b ut…How can—?"

"_Monsieur_ Potter," Professor Lescault continued, "I am told you alone were determined to press on the fight against Loxias. Why was that?"

"Well, it surely wasn't because of any daft prophecy! I hadn't even heard it yet!"

"And yet, you were already so deeply invested in bringing Loxias to justice, you could not bear the thought of letting him get away."

Edwin sat, stunned.

"It seems you have also made a choice, _n'est-ce pas_?"

He leaned back and crossed his arms.

"It is not good that you have attracted the attention of this Loxias," Madam Simon said. "Of that I am quite sure."

"_Madame_ Simon is quite right," Professor Veillard said. He pulled as his steel-gray beard and leaned forward with his elbows on the table.

"His enemies don't tend to live very long," Edwin said. "While I was in his camp, he mentioned something he received from some bloke named Deverill. I took it he and Loxias had crossed paths."

"Deverill?" Professor Veillard gasped. "_Barnabas_ Deverill?"

Basil's eyes widened. "Surely not!" he protested.

"Hey, I remember him," Edwin said. "He was in a famous duel about the time Basil and I started at Hogwarts, wasn't he?"

"More than one," Basil said. "He apparently didn't believe in letting bygones be bygones. Challenged three or four important Ministry wizards to duels—won every time. And that's not counting the other wizards who weren't so important."

"That's right," Edwin said. "My grandpa was always going on about how he was going to break wizarding secrecy one of these days the way he kept leaving the bodies of dead wizards around. What ever happened to him?"

"All of a sudden, he vanished. My dad says he must have left England," Basil said.

"He did," Professor Veillard said. "He terrorized the Iroquois for a while. Then they say he finally met his match in a duel. They say an unknown French wizard tracked him down in New York. He somehow took him by surprise. Then he took his wand."

"The one the Indians call the Deathstick?" Basil asked, apprehensive. Professor Veillard nodded.

Edwin grinned, however. "Well, then there's one thing we know for sure. The Deathstick _can_ be beaten! Loxias himself did it when he killed Barnabas Deverill."

"Edwin, surely you don't intend—"

"Hey!" Edwin started. "There's something more. While I was under my Cloak, I heard a prophecy!"

"What!" Clément exclaimed.

"Yeah. Something about a Gryffindor"

"You're joking!" Basil said.

"What is a…Gryffindor?" Bernadette asked.

"My old school house," Edwin explained.

"I've got a bad feeling about this, Edwin. What did he say? Can you remember it?"

Edwin furrowed his brow. "_L'île du Nord_…and the Gryffindor…"

"The northern island?" Bernadette said.

"Right! Now I remember. '_Tristesse s'étend sur l'île du Nord_.'"

"Sadness extends over the northern island," Madame Lescault translated. "And then something about a Gryffindor?"

" '_Un monstre_…something…the Gryffindor.'"

"A monster…attacks the Gryffindor?" Madame Simon suggested.

"A monster destroys the Gryffindor?" Professor Ferdandy said.

"Could just as well be 'A monster cuddles with the Gryffindor,' right? Sorry, I'll shut up now."

"_Excusez-moi_," Bernadette said. "But are you sure he said 'Gryffindor'? Perhaps he was saying '_griffon d'or_,' griffin made of gold?"

Edwin wracked his brain, trying to remember. "I'm not sure," he finally admitted.

"Well, we have most of the first couplet," Professor Lescault said. "_Monsieur_ Potter, do you remember the rest?"

"'_Tous le monde s'inquiète_.' Everybody is worried, right?"

"You can say that again," Basil quipped.

"And _s'inquiète_ rhymed with…_secrète_? Oh, who am I kidding? This is impossible!"

"Just calm down, mate," Basil said. "It'll come to you."

Edwin took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine everything about the scene he witnessed back at Loxias's camp.

"_Avec raison tous le monde s'inquiète_

_De l'ombre de la chambre secrète_"

"Everybody has a right to be worried or concerned about the shadow from the secret room," Basil said.

"But what does that mean?" Madame Simon said. "What is this secret room? What is this shadow?"

Basil sat bolt upright. "Maybe it's not a secret room. Maybe it's a secret _chamber_." His eyes bored into Edwin's. Recognition suddenly registered.

"Can't be, Basil. It simply can't be!"

"Why not?"

"Because it's only a legend is why not. You don't seriously think—?"

"But it all makes sense. Don't you see?"

"Slow down, Mr. Parkinson," Professor Ferdandy said. "What the devil are you talking about?"

"It all fits!" Basil said. "The northern island? This Loxias bloke's from France, right. So, what's the biggest island north of France? Britain! And where else are you going to find a Gryffindor to cuddle with your monster? Right, Edwin?"

"But what about the secret room?" Bernadette said.

"Not a secret room," Basil said, "a secret _chamber_. Or in other words, a Chamber of Secrets."

"Good Lord, Basil," Edwin said in a near-whisper. "You can't be serious!"

"The Chamber of Secrets is real," Basil said evenly. "We Slytherins have never doubted it."

"But nobody knows where it is! It's been seven hundred years, for heaven's sake."

"Loxias has the gift of Sight. Maybe he's got an edge all the others who've looked for it never had."

"But what is this 'Chamber of Secrets'?" Clément asked.

"Trouble," Edwin said. "Merlin's beard, Basil. I think you might be right. If Loxias knows how to find it…if he knows what's in it…" He whipped around to face the Mènigou wizards.

"Professors," he said. "We need passage on a ship as soon as possible."

"A ship?" Professor Ferdandy said. "To where?"

"Britain," Edwin said, half-rising from his chair. "Loxias is headed for Hogwarts!"

* * *

• _Avada kedavra_ means "Be destroyed at this word" in Aramaic, the language of the Neo-Assyrian Empire.

• Jean de La Fontaine was one of the most widely read French poets of the seventeenth century.


	6. The Blackness of the Night

_Thursday, November 29, A.D. 1716_

Edwin sat, arms crossed, staring down at the table in front of him. He didn't dare look up, lest his anger get the best of him.

For the past month, he endured the special inquest the Ministry set up to investigate the death of Julian Southill and the events that led to it. He seethed as witches and wizards second-guessed from their safe distance every move he and Basil had made. ("Yes, I was aware of Loxias's reputation for murder." "No, I didn't beg leave to trail Mr. Levesque.") He listened as Basil related his side of the story—their first encounter with Loxias, the battle at the camp, the prophecies Rigel Black recorded in the logbook that Edwin had retrieved. Ministry clerks read into the record the depositions sent via owl post from the Mènigou faculty, the French legation from Montréal, and even from Sak, the recently appointed paramount wizard of the Micmacs.

All the while, Edwin realized, Loxias was free to do as he pleased. He was sure Black would interpret the prophecy the same way Basil had. He would explain to his master about the Chamber of Secrets and the dreaded monster Slytherins believed still lurked somewhere on (or, more likely, beneath) the Hogwarts grounds. Whatever that creature was, he was willing to bet Loxias would figure out how to control it, just as he had learned to control the _widjigo_ back in Nova Scotia.

As soon as they had arrived at Plymouth, Edwin had sent urgent owl messages to Headmaster Everard alerting him to a possible infiltration of the school. When it became clear that the Ministry intended to bog him down with this senseless inquest, he also sent owls to Dilys Derwent and Thomas Wildsmith, his two most trusted friends after Basil, to seek their help. Dilys immediately offered to help him any way she could—although neither of them knew how that might be. There was still no word from Thomas as the days turned into weeks and Edwin faced daily hearings at Ministry headquarters. He was fit to be tied.

As the court chambers began to fill with jurors, Edwin remained impassive. A Mr. Diggory, the Deputy Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot called to order the twenty members of the investigative panel. In the gallery sat the representative from Magical Law Enforcement. Selwyn, Edwin thought his name was. At least they had not brought any charges of a criminal nature against him! Still, it made him nervous that someone from that particular department of the Ministry had taken an interest in the proceedings.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Parkinson," Diggory called.

Only then did Edwin stand and look up. The Deputy Chief Warlock was a middle-aged wizard in full regalia—resplendent plum-colored robes, black pallium, silver pectoral amulet, and a periwig so white it practically glowed. Beside him sat the court scribe, Lucius Loughty, who had apparently done rather well for himself the past year back in England. He scribbled on his stenographer's tablet, his powder-blue periwig bobbing up and down.

"It is the finding of this inquest that the death of Commissioner Julian Southill was an act of murder perpetrated by the Dark wizard known to the French colonials as Loxias, and by him alone."

For a second, Edwin thought he might relax, but beside him Basil sat still as a stone. The Deputy Chief Warlock was not finished.

"It is further the finding of this inquest that the reckless and insubordinate actions of Mr. Edwin Potter, while not malicious in themselves, set in motion the events that led to this tragic episode which resulted Commissioner Southill's death and serious injury to several others."

Edwin gulped.

"Mr. Potter, after reviewing Commissioner Southill's reports, I find that he thought quite highly of your courage and resourcefulness, but that your ability to consider the consequences of your actions—not to mention your ability to follow orders—often fell short of his expectations. Given the circumstances, this inquest intends presently to file a formal recommendation that your employment by the Ministry be terminated immediately. You may go."

Edwin exhaled. Basil stood at his side, betraying no emotion whatsoever. He rose to leave with Basil close behind.

"Mr. Parkinson, you have not been dismissed."

Basil and Edwin traded confused glances. Edwin turned away, leaving Basil to whatever additional business the inquest had with him. He trudged up the stairs to the Atrium alone.

At the security desk, he stopped as he had done every day for the past four weeks to retrieve his wand. Fireplaces flanked the vast open room. He considered Flooing home to his parents, but only for an instant. He knew where he had to go. Loxias was headed for Hogwarts—was probably already there.

"Edwin!"

Edwin spun around. Bounding toward him across the atrium was Thomas Wildsmith. The short, pudgy wizard grinned from ear to ear. "Thank God! I feared I'd have missed you."

"Thomas! Where've you been? I was beginning to think the goblins had you chained to a desk somewhere."

"They practically did," Thomas said. "I've been assigned to the Gringotts branch in Oslo since April."

"Oslo!"

"Yeah. They've been having problems with Dark objects entering Norway. And of course, the goblins don't trust wizards to do a proper job of containing the situation."

"So they sent their top curse-breaker to have a go at it, eh?"

"Well, about that…"

Suddenly the two were interrupted as Basil Parkinson entered the atrium. After hasty greetings, Basil leaned into his two comrades and in hushed tones said, "Thomas, I just learned you've been corresponding with Selwyn in Magical Law Enforcement? We need to talk. You too, Edwin—but not here."

"Basil, what—?"

"Not here, Edwin, or the two of us may get the sack as well."

Both Thomas and Edwin stared quizzically at Basil, who merely shepherded them toward the nearest fireplace. He reached for a jar on the mantle and retrieved a pinch of silvery powder.

"We've got to make up for lost time," Basil said. He tossed the Floo Powder on the fire, and the flames turned from orange to green. He stepped into the fire and shouted, "The Three Broomsticks!"

Thomas and Edwin looked at each other, shrugged, and followed Basil's lead.

* * *

The last time Edwin was at The Three Broomsticks he had gotten into a fight with Rigel Black—and landed a job offer from Julian Southill, who was in Hogsmeade recruiting for the Ministry. The place still looked the same as it always did: warm and crowded, but hospitable.

Basil tipped the barman for the use of the Floo and an added extra Galleon for a private room. As soon as the door closed behind them, Edwin and Basil caught Thomas up about Loxias, Southill, and his fate before the Wizengamot. At they concluded their tale, Basil took a breath and began to speak.

"The Ministry's getting concerned about Loxias. Southill's reports—well, you heard them read at the inquest, Edwin. They know he's a threat. They just don't know where he's going to show up next."

"He's here," Edwin interrupted. "He's got to be. That last prophecy…"

"Yes, I know," Basil said. "It makes sense, especially with Black around to tell him about the Chamber of Secrets. But I don't know if the inquest was convinced. At any rate, the Ministry are still smarting over Barnabas Deverill."

"I remember that," Thomas chimed in. "Biggest public relations disaster in a hundred years. Wizards all across the country fearing for their lives. Dead bodies turning up—and being discovered by Muggles! I reckon the Ministry won't relish the possibility of another Dark wizard roaming the countryside."

"Right, Thomas. That's why they're determined to handle Loxias differently."

"That's why Selwyn wanted me," Thomas said.

"What are you talking about, Thomas?"

"Well," he said, "I've been a curse-breaker for Gringotts ever since leaving Hogwarts. And they say I'm pretty good at it. There's nothing to it, really. It's all just a matter of understanding the elemental harmonics and knowing how to apply the proper Arithmantic…. Right. Anyway, Selwyn has offered me a position in the Ministry. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement is starting a kind of task force to confront Dark magic head-on. I reckon they need someone who knows a thing or two about curses, and…"

"And you're their man," Edwin said.

"I haven't decided, actually," Thomas explained. "But I reckoned it wouldn't hurt to hear what Selwyn had to say. The situation in Norway has settled down a bit, so I put in for temporary leave from Gringotts and here I am."

"You'll be brilliant, Thomas," Edwin said. "But tell me more about this task force."

"There's not much to tell, actually," Thomas said. "It's so new it doesn't even have a name yet. But Selwyn's pressing for funding to train the best witches and wizards. And the Minister of Magic is drafting legislation against the worst curses. You know: Cruciatus, Imperius…"

"And the Assyrian Curse?" Edwin asked.

Thomas nodded. "Southill's death has really shaken things up. But as I understand it, the one thing no one seems to agree on is what to do with Dark wizards once they've been captured."

"I'll tell you what I'd do with them…" Edwin began, reaching for his wand. Thomas raised a hand to stop him.

"It's not that easy, Edwin. They say some Dark wizards have ways of cheating death. And even if you do kill them, they might come back."

"What, as a ghost?" Edwin scoffed.

"Or a spectre," Basil said. "A ghost is like the echo of a person's whole personality. But a spectre is made of only the bad parts."

Thomas nodded. "And there are other kinds of Dark spirits. Dybbuks, Rakshasas…"

"_Widjigos_," Edwin said. "I see your point." Suddenly he spun toward Basil. "But how are you involved?" Basil dropped his head as if he didn't want to look Edwin in the eye.

"The Ministry reassigned me. They wanted someone on this task force of theirs who knew firsthand what Loxias could do."

"I see."

"The thing is…they've sort of put me in charge of the case, actually."

Edwin said nothing.

"I still answer to Selwyn, of course," Basil continued. He awkwardly regarded his half-empty cup. "But he's given me free rein to put together a team. Given the circumstances, I doubt he'd appreciate me recruiting you, Edwin, but I'd be obliged if you'd—"

"No," Edwin said. "You don't have to do this, Basil. The Ministry's given me the sack. No point putting your own head on the block. To be honest, I'm not sure I want to work for them any more."

"You and I both know you're somehow the key to all this," Basil said. He briefly filled Thomas in on Loxias's prophecies and how Edwin seemed to have been targeted as a threat to his schemes.

Thomas leaned back in his chair. "He's right, mate," he told Edwin. "If what Basil says is true, I'll bet Loxias will eventually come looking for you if you work for the Ministry or not."

"Come on, Edwin," Basil said. "We need to get to the castle and start looking for clues."

"Whatever you say, boss."

Darkness had fallen by the time Basil settled the bill with the barman. The three wizards strolled down High Street toward Hogwarts castle. Edwin pulled his cloak around him against the cold November night.

"So, where do you reckon this Chamber of Secrets is?" he said.

"No idea," Basil confessed. "We Slytherins have all heard about it, though. They say Salazar Slytherin himself built it as a sort of hideaway where he could teach his best students magic that wasn't exactly part of the curriculum. Then, when he was forced out of Hogwarts—"

"I heard he left of his own accord," Edwin protested.

"That's the Gryffindor version," Basil said. "At any rate, things must have gotten pretty ugly toward the end. Before he left he put a monster in the Chamber that only he—or one of his descendants—could control."

"And you really think this monster could still be there?"

"There's lots of magical creatures that can live for centuries," Basil said. "Or maybe the legend had it wrong: it wasn't one creature but a whole breeding population."

"That's a pleasant thought," Edwin quipped.

"But wouldn't Loxias need a descendant of Slytherin to help him find the Chamber?" Thomas asked.

A chill ran down Edwin's spine. "Black?"

"I dunno," Basil admitted. "The Blacks are an ancient line, that's for sure, but I don't remember them ever boasting of a connection to Salazar."

Thomas suddenly stopped and pointed his wand into the surrounding woods. The other two followed suit.

"What's the matter, Thomas?"

"I thought I heard something," he said.

"It's all this talk of monsters," Edwin judged.

"Wait!" Basil said. "I heard it, too. That way." He beamed wand light off to the left. "Spread out."

The three warily approached the spot Basil had indicated. Edwin felt his heart racing. The air seemed suddenly colder.

Something was definitely moving in the brush. Edwin heard a long, low rattling breath. For some reason, the sound filled him not with dread, but with deep despair. He had actually begun feeling himself again, talking with Basil and Thomas. It was like old times. For a second, he even held out hope that they could find the Chamber and prevent it from being opened. Now he was bathed in a cold shower of hopelessness and misery. His knees began to buckle.

He realized he knew exactly what was making the sound. Before he could react, though, a dark figure like a living shroud glided out of the woods directly toward him.

Edwin froze. To his right, he heard Thomas gasp in horror. His own mind began to swim, and all around him the blackness of the night seemed to become a living thing, smothering and constricting him. He was going to die. Somewhere in the depths of his heart, he _wanted_ to die and be done with it all. A hooded, faceless monstrosity hovered over him, bent down as if to look him in the eye.

"_Expecto Patronum_!" Basil shouted. Suddenly the night was ablaze with the light of a silvery fox that pounced upon the Dementor and drove it back.

"Edwin!" Thomas cried. "Are you all right? Edwin!"

Edwin moaned and struggled to stir himself. In a heartbeat, Thomas was kneeling beside him.

"It's gone," Basil announced. "C'mon, Edwin. Let's get you up to the castle."


	7. Apollyon

Basil charged through the gate as soon as Mr. Pembroke, the caretaker, opened it. He led Edwin by a hand on his shoulder as Thomas followed close behind. They crossed the lawn on the way to the great oaken double doors and, as soon as possible, the Hospital Wing.

Edwin was vaguely aware of his surroundings. The marble staircase, the paintings, tapestries, and suits of armor that adorned the hallways. It was the dead of night, and neither students nor faculty impeded their quest.

Basil stopped suddenly as a dustbin flew his way down a narrow staircase to one side of the hall. Edwin and Thomas lurched to a halt, nearly bowling Basil over.

"Oooh!" a cackling voice laughed. "The Miscreants have come back to play! Still sneaking around after curfew, are we?"

"Peeves!" Thomas cried. Hogwarts's resident poltergeist soared down the stairs and hovered two feet off the floor, blowing raspberries at the three wizards.

"Is widdle Eddie feeling puny?" he giggled. "Did he eat too much pudding at supper?"

Basil aimed his wand at the poltergeist. "Peeves, get out of our way. Now!"

"Aww!" Peeves, cried as if deeply offended. "It's been three years! Are the Miscreants all gwown up now? Too big to have some fun with Peevesy?"

"Peeves," Basil hissed through gritted teeth, "if you don't leave this instant, I will go straight to the dungeons, find the Bloody Baron, and tell him precisely where to find you."

Peeves made a face, turned and dropped his trousers at them, then vanished through the ceiling.

Basil, Edwin, and Thomas stumbled forward. At the door to the hospital wing, Thomas shouted, "Madam Scevington!"

Basil guided Edwin into the nearest bed, even as he protested he was feeling better. Basil also called out for the Hogwarts matron.

"She isn't here," a familiar voice called. Edwin lifted his eyes to see a young woman with a kind face framed in golden ringlets.

"Dilys," he said.

"Dilys!" Thomas said. "I'd forgotten you'd taken a position as Madam Scevington's assistant. You've got to help Edwin."

Dilys Derwent gasped as she took stock of the scene before her.

"Dementor attack," Basil said. Dilys yelped in terror and disbelief. "Have you got any Nepenthe? We'll need to concoct an infusion to counteract the effects."

"Nepenthe? At fifteen Galleons a bulb?" Dilys said. She had already tied on her apron and started a fire in a small burner on her work table. "But I've got something nearly as good." She conjured water into a small pewter cup and set it on the burner. She hastily gathered ingredients from a nearby cabinet, all the while keeping one eye on Edwin as he lolled on the hospital bed.

"What the devil was a Dementor doing at Hogwarts?" she said.

"Attacking people," Edwin mumbled.

"In Defense class," Thomas said, "Professor Dimsdale said he couldn't remember the last time there was a Dementor attack in Britain. They're very rare creatures. It's a good thing you remembered the Patronus charm, Basil."

"Edwin and I had a run-in with Lethifolds in the Gambia a couple of years ago," Basil explained. "We both got plenty of practice."

"Well, thank God you're safe," Dilys said. She strode to where Edwin was sitting and presented him with a warm pewter mug of something dark and frothy. "Drink up," she said.

Edwin tilted the mug toward him. The contents were at least as much froth as liquid. The taste was at once greasy, bitter, and spicy.

"Augh!" he spat. "Merlin's…sweaty…. What _is_ this?"

"Chocolate," Dilys explained. "It's from the West Indies. I'm surprised you've never tried it, Edwin. Now drink, please."

Edwin slowly lifted the mug once more to his lips. He downed about half of it with his eyes closed and his face in a contortion of near agony. "Too much will to live, I suppose. But this poison works, does it?"

"It's an acquired taste," Dilys said.

"You can say that again."

Though he was loath to admit it, the chocolate did seem to lift his spirits. He emptied his mug with another large gulp.

"Dilys," Basil said. "Have their been any other incidents at Hogwarts? Any strangers prowling around?"

"No, Basil. Not that I've heard of."

The door to the Hospital Wing creaked opened. A tall white-haired wizard in sweeping robes of black and gold stormed in. His expression was a mixture of alarm and fury.

"Professor Everard!" Edwin gulped.

"Headmaster!" Dilys said.

"Parkinson!" the Headmaster thundered. "Pembroke told me you brought in an injured man… Potter?" His eyes widened as recognition dawned on his wizened face.

"Good evening, Sir," Edwin muttered. All of a sudden he felt like he was thirteen or fourteen years old again, sitting in the Hospital Wing and having to answer to his Headmaster about whatever mischief had sent him there.

"Professor Everard," Thomas said, "you must secure the castle straightaway. There's a Dementor lurking about."

"A Dementor!" the Headmaster gasped.

Thomas, Edwin, and Basil explained to the Headmaster about the Ministry's task force and about Basil's hunch that Loxias might be trying to open the Chamber of Secrets. They explained about the Dementor attack between Hogsmeade and the castle. Everard stood in silence until they finished their story.

"Mr. Parkinson," he began slowly. "The Chamber of Secrets…. Do you know how many times the professors at Hogwarts have searched for such a chamber?"

"It exists," Basil said. "Ask any Slytherin you like. Ask Professor Littlefield; she'll tell you."

"Miss Derwent," Professor Everard said, "can you confirm that Mr. Potter was _really_ attacked by a Dementor?"

Edwin's ears began to burn at the insinuation he and the others were making up their story. Basil laid a hand gently on his shoulder and gave him an expression that urged him to be patient.

"I–I didn't see the Dementor for myself," Dilys began, "but his symptoms were definitely in keeping with everything we know about such creatures."

"Headmaster," Basil said, standing up as straight and tall as he could. As always, he kept his emotions in check, but Edwin could tell by the strain in his voice that he wasn't as confident as the aura he was projecting. "We're here under the authority of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We have reason to believe that a known Dark wizard intends to infiltrate Hogwarts—if in fact he hasn't already done so. My men and I…" he gestured to Edwin and Thomas "need to conduct a thorough search to ensure the safety of the school and everyone in it. It's as simple as that, I'm afraid. Um…Sir."

Professor Everard sighed.

"One week," he said. "And whatever you do, try not to upset the students. It's difficult enough maintaining discipline around here without you miscreants underfoot." He left as abruptly as he had arrived.

"Well, that went well, all things considered," Thomas said.

"Dashing," Edwin said. "We were the '_Dashing_ Miscreants.' They always forget the 'Dashing' bit."

* * *

The next morning, Basil, Edwin, and Thomas addressed the Heads of House in the staff room to explain about the Ministry's anti-Dark Arts task force and why they were there. Professor Dimsdale, the venerable Head of Gryffindor, listened raptly to all Basil had to say about Loxias. Professor Gamp, the young and eager Head of Ravenclaw was incredulous when he brought up the Chamber of Secrets, but kept his peace when Professor Littlefield of Slytherin gave him a steely stare.

"Of course you'll have our support," said Professor Butterworth, the cheery Head of Hufflepuff. She had sat on the edge of her chair throughout Basil's presentation, alternately gasping and sighing at the account of Edwin and Basil's adventures.

"Indeed," said Professor Dimsdale. The others agreed as well.

"And the Lord be with you," Professor Butterworth added. As far as Edwin could tell, the middle-aged witch practiced her faith more sincerely than most. Though he didn't have time for such pursuits himself, he didn't begrudge her the comfort it obviously provided her.

"Thanks, Professor," he said. "We'll take all the help we can get."

Outside the staff room, Dilys was waiting for the Edwin and the rest. She insisted on helping with the search, so she and Basil split off to search the lower levels of the castle while Thomas and Edwin took the towers. Edwin wasn't convinced the Chamber could be accessed from the upper floors, but he couldn't dispute the fact that Dilys and Basil, the Hufflepuff and the Slytherin, knew their way around the basements far better than he did. He didn't slack off, however, but used every trick he knew—magical or otherwise—to locate any secret entrances he had somehow overlooked during his six years as a Hogwarts student. He frequently doubled back, remembering an old passageway or hiding place he had neglected to investigate. He mumbled to himself as he tried to work out where a new sliding cabinet or trap door might be. By mid-morning, they had not yet left the second floor.

For his part, Thomas simply followed behind, his nose in Basil's captured logbook half the time.

"I don't see anything here," he said for what must have been the fiftieth time, peering behind a suit of armor. "If Loxias received any inside information about the location of the Chamber, it was after Basil nicked his diary."

"Figures," Edwin said.

"But there is this," Thomas added. He had the book open to one of the first pages. Underneath a date in March of 1714, Edwin read,

_Quand le voile se déchire et tombe  
Voyez la chute des deux royaumes  
Dans le danger et dans le feu  
Il y vient: Apollyon l'odieux_

"They're all like that," he quipped. "Bad French poetry foretelling doom and destruction."

"Yeah, but this one sounds important, don't you think? 'When the veil is torn and falls, behold the downfall of the two kingdoms…'"

"He said something about a veil back in Nova Scotia."

"Hmm," Thomas pondered. "What do you reckon it means?"

"Well, a veil is supposed to keep something hidden, innit? So…some kind of secret is about to be revealed?"

"That makes sense," Thomas admitted. "But whatever this secret is, it's a big one. Two kingdoms are supposed to fall when the veil does."

"France and Britain?" Edwin guessed.

"I dunno," Thomas said. "Now our Muggles are all chummy with the French Muggles…"

"We don't know how long that will last. The English and the French don't exactly have a heartwarming history together. A false move could foul things up in a hurry."

"You're not kidding. I reckon that's where the next lines come in: 'In danger and in fire, here comes the detestable Apollyon.'"

"The who?"

"Apollyon…Apollyon. I've heard that name before…." Suddenly a grin spread across his face. "C'mon. I think I've got it!"

The two sped down the corridor toward Professor Butterworth's Potions classroom. Thomas gingerly opened the door so as not to distract the fifth-year Slytherins and Gryffindors from their lessons.

Edwin waited at the door as Thomas slid to the front of the classroom and whispered something to his former Head of House. She nodded, then pulled an old, leather-bound book from a drawer in her desk.

Thomas trotted back to Edwin as silently as he could, but by the time he made his way to the door half the class had turned from their Babbling Beverage to the two strangers trying—and failing—to look inconspicuous.

"Now, be careful adding your scurvy grass," Professor Butterworth instructed. "We don't want a repeat of what happened last time with the Befuddlement Draught. Isn't that right, Mr. Gaunt?"

A lean, bespectacled student flushed red and immediately turned from Thomas back to his work.

"Over here," Thomas whispered. He led Edwin to the basin at the back of the classroom where spoiled potions and ingredients were poured. Thomas removed a water pitcher from the small ledge around the basin and cleared out a couple of empty potion vials to make room for the book he had borrowed from Professor Butterworth. He opened it and began flipping through the pages in the back.

"A Bible?" Edwin puzzled.

"The Apocalypse," Thomas said. "There's a bit about…I dunno, demons or something that get unleashed on the earth. You know, on Judgment Day."

"Oh, this just keeps getting better," Edwin said.

"Well, it's not meant to be taken literally," Thomas said. He ran his finger down each page, scanning the tiny print. "At least…I'm pretty sure… Ah! Here it is! Chapter nine: 'And they had tails like unto scorpions, and there were stings in their tails: and their power was to hurt men five months. And they had a king over them, which is the angel of the bottomless pit, whose name in the Hebrew tongue is Abaddon, but in the Greek tongue hath his name Apollyon.'"

"So…" Edwin tried to put his thoughts into words, but couldn't seem to get started.

"I think 'Apollyon' must be symbolic," Thomas said. "Whoever it is who's going to tear down the veil—"

"Whatever that means."

"—the chap that brings the danger and fire when the two kingdoms collapse."

"Wait, wouldn't that be Loxias himself? Isn't that is plan?"

"Could be," Thomas agreed. "But it's funny he would give himself such a…well, let's say _negative_ nickname. He'd have to be awfully evil to think of himself that way and still carry on."

"Believe me, he's every bit that evil… Say!" Edwin blurted, more loudly than he intended. The fifth-years once again craned their necks in their direction until Professor Butterworth called them back to attention.

"D'you think that bit about the bottomless pit…"

Thomas shushed Edwin. He cocked his head toward the students' worktables. Edwin noted the lean student Butterworth had chided earlier—was his name Gaunt?—had taken an interest in what he was saying. There was something odd about him, and not just the way his eyes seemed to point in two different directions.

Edwin got up and headed for the door. Thomas followed behind. Outside the classroom, Thomas said, "I don't think the bottomless pit has anything to do with the Chamber of Secrets, if that's what you're thinking."

"Well…good. I mean, Dementors are one thing; I don't know what we'd do against scorpion-demons."

"Edwin, we've just got to face the fact that whatever is in the Chamber is going to be nasty."

"Thanks for pointing that out, Thomas. The thought never crossed my mind."

From inside the classroom, Edwin could hear the sounds of chairs scooting across the floor as students began to collect their things and leave for their next class. A minute later, they emptied into the corridor. Edwin and Thomas both got a baleful glare from the scrawny, bespectacled Mr. Gaunt.

"Do you remember him?" Edwin asked. "He'd have started Hogwarts about the time I left."

"Nycteus Gaunt," Thomas said. "I had a few run-ins with him when I was Prefect. Had a habit of wandering the dungeons after curfew."

"He seemed to take an interest when I mentioned the bottomless pit."

"Edwin, every student in that classroom took an interest when you said that. Subtlety never was your strong suit, if you haven't noticed."

"Yeah," Edwin said. "Maybe that's all it was."

* * *

The week Professor Everard promised them came and went, and still they were no closer to locating the Chamber. What was worse, there were no further signs of anything amiss at Hogwarts or anywhere nearby. Basil convinced the Headmaster to extend their stay for another month. (Thankfully, Professor Littlefield had taken an interest in the case—whether to stop Loxias or to satisfy her own curiosity about the Chamber of Secrets, Edwin dared not guess.)

By mid-December, Thomas started receiving owls from Gringotts, wondering when he intended to return to work. The situation in Norway had taken a bad turn when someone tried to put a cursed locket in a vault. Apparently, once they took it below, it began to shriek and billow nauseating black smoke, incapacitating at least half a dozen goblins.

"Tell them you're sick," Edwin suggested. "We need you here, Thomas."

"They're not going to believe I'm sick," Thomas protested. "You've never dealt with goblins like I have; they know things."

"Well, then," Basil said, "perhaps it's time for you to decide whether you want to work for the goblins or take up Selwyn's offer and join his task force permanently."

"Thomas can make up his own mind," Dilys said. "But I do hope you'll help with Mr. Selwyn's task force. You could really do a lot of good."

"I don't feel like I'm doing much good here," Thomas moped.

"Don't sell yourself short, mate," Basil said. "It was brilliant the way you figured out that Apollyon thing. I'd been stumped by that one for months and you solved it in about a minute."

"We haven't solved it yet," Thomas said. "We don't know what this veil is all about, or what two kingdoms are supposed to fall."

"But it looks like Loxias is hoping to benefit from it," Edwin said. "He's looking to arise somehow in the midst of the chaos—grab power somehow. Right?"

"I'm not sure how that helps us," Dilys said. "We need more information. I'm sorry, Basil, Edwin, but it just doesn't look like anything is happening at Hogwarts."

"It will," Edwin said flatly.

December rolled on, and everything remained quiet. Other than a report of a poltergeist infesting a rectory in Epworth, it didn't seem anything of an overtly Dark nature was happening anywhere in Britain.

"Do you think we ought to investigate?" Edwin asked. "It could be significant."

"You're joking!" Basil said. "It's a bloody poltergeist. The report says the rector has nineteen children. Nineteen! It's a wonder they don't have a whole nest of poltergeists with that many children under one roof, even if they are Muggles!"

"Basil's right," Thomas added. "The Ministry will keep an eye on the situation and move in if it doesn't resolve itself."

"I know," Edwin said. "I reckon I'm just antsy being cooped up here. I feel like I ought to be doing something, you know?"

"There are still a few more places we haven't searched," Basil said. "We'll tackle them directly after Christmas. But I have to say," he sighed, "I'm beginning to wonder if we haven't gotten it wrong somehow. Surely Loxias would have hatched his plan by now."

* * *

• The first "chocolate house" opened in London in 1657, advertising the beverage as an "excellent West Indian drink." It was often mixed with chili peppers, cinnamon, cloves, vanilla, and other flavorings. Advertising not withstanding, a 16th-century Spanish missionary described chocolate as "loathsome to such as are not acquainted with it, having a scum or froth that is very unpleasant to taste." The first milk chocolate drink was devised in Jamaica in 1689.

• The rectory of St. Andrews in Epworth, Lincolnshire, was indeed the site of claimed paranormal events in December 1716 and January 1717. Samuel Wesley, his wife, and his nineteen children reported strange sounds and apparitions at their home for nearly two months. Samuel's son John, by the way, grew up to become the founder of Methodism.


End file.
